The Prettiest Girl in the Whole Wide World
by Hope Now
Summary: "My sister is dead. I just found out about it. It's been eight years, can you believe that?" He laughed, but it was humorless. "It's…" He struggled with his words. "Rough," he finished. There was no other way to say it. "It's been a rough day."


_**Disclaimer: **I don't own American Horror Story or any of its characters. The title, "The Prettiest Girl in the Whole Wide World," was taken from a Weezer song of the same name._

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><p><strong>The Prettiest Girl in the Whole Wide World<strong>

The house was eerily quiet for Halloween. Nobody bothered with the decorations this year, because trying to make everything _special_ just caused a lot of arguments, and valuable things were thrown about and broken. Nora Montgomery was particularly upset. The Harmons had been perpetual inhabitants at the house for quite some time and each year it was always the same. It was the gay couple versus them. Occasionally the house would be sold and be occupied in time for Halloween. Then the "fluffers" would appear again and the Harmons would intervene. It's a whole hell of a mess, really.

It took them long enough to realize that it was all bullshit, even in death.

The Camp Gay one still seemed to think that Murder House is _Chad _House. A couple of years before, he had even taken a bucket, filled it will water and some apples, held Patrick's head underwater and temporarily broken his neck. The year after that, he did the same to Tate.

The house toys with your mind, tricks you and fools you. Does things to you. Drives you crazy, or at least you think it does. It slowly takes your life away, and when you're dead and trapped, it just keeps getting worse. If you let it.

Some people just have no control over anything.

This year, everything would be different. This year, the house was up for sale, Chad and Patrick were going to Vegas, and the Harmons were staying home and watching old horror movies. The rest of the ghosts had plans of their own.

Tate had been toying with his own plan for quite some time. Now that the day had come, he wasn't holding back. Time to leave this shit hole. Really, twenty-four hours a year isn't that much, but it's _something_.

"Going somewhere, are we?"

Tate barely flinched as he closed the door behind him and turned to glare at whoever had spoken to him. "You're up early," he spat. He brushed past her and made his way toward the very gates that kept him prisoner three hundred and sixty-four days a year.

"I should tell you the same thing." Hayden easily caught up with him, a smirk already adorning her lips. She put a hand to his chest to stop him. "Hold up, Ghostface—"

"That's original," he cut in with a scoff. Nevermind the fact that he had no idea what the hell this "Ghostface" was even supposed to be—he was sure that it was just some overdone pop culture entity that made Hayden feel like she was being clever.

She paused. "Hey, you smell nice. Where'd you get your stuff, Bed Bath & Beyond the Grave?" She cackled at her own little stupid joke.

"I don't have time for this, okay? Now fuck off."

Hayden merely rolled her eyes. "Whatever. What are you doing, anyway? It's barely six AM." She yawned.

"Rule number one," he stated, "is _Make the most of it_."

"Ooh, I like this. What's rule number two? _You do not talk about Sad Pathetic Ghost Club_?"

Tate just looked at her. "No, rule number two is _Move out of my way_." He stepped out of the gates and almost grinned when he was actually able to pass through.

He ran across the street to the Penningtons' yard and looked around. Nobody seemed to be up yet, but he remembered that Mrs. Pennington liked having a cup of tea as early as possible. Then she would tend to her garden all morning.

He hadn't done this in ages. Hell, it's highly possible that Mrs. Pennington was already dead, herself. She was older than Constance.

Tate went ahead with the plan anyway.

He couldn't believe he still remembered where the daisies were. They were still at one side of the yard, fresh and dewy, looking their best at six in the morning. That was part of why he was out of the house so early. That, and because rule number one was true. Halloween only comes once a year, and fuck it if you wasted time and did nothing.

He had chosen to make himself visible to anyone, because he wanted to forget he was dead for a while. But he suddenly found himself wishing that ghosts really _were_ able to walk through walls. Sliding an arm through the Penningtons' fence to grab a daisy was difficult. Still, he pulled it off.

Tate got away with three of the flowers, running back across the street. She always liked it that way. "One for you, one for me, and another, just because," was what she kept saying, words paired with her sweetest smile.

Hayden had gone back inside, and he was standing alone. The sun was halfway up and life was about to begin rearing its head soon enough. Tate took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders, bracing himself for what's next. Then he walked to the house next door.

"Constance," he called when he reached the back door. His voice was even, and just loud enough for her to hear. She had to be awake already. Begrudgingly, he corrected himself. "_Mama_."

He knew that it was painful for her to hear it. He did it anyway. Better _Constance_ than that, at least for her. She probably remembered his childhood and hearing his little boy voice calling her late at night, fresh from a nightmare. _Mama._ He had stopped calling her that when he turned thirteen.

Constance was at the door within seconds. "Tate?"

"In the flesh." He grinned for a second, waiting for her response, then frowned. "You know that's supposed to be funny, right? Because I'm dead, and I don't have a body anymore, so technically, I can never be with you 'in the flesh?'"

She only nodded. "Come inside."

He followed her into the house and stood awkwardly in the kitchen. His search for someone was obvious in his face and eyes.

"Are you looking for Michael?" Constance asked. Before her son could ask who Michael was, she was quick to add, "Why, I realize only now that you've never met your son!"

_Cue the fake laugh,_ Tate thought bitterly. Growing up with an actress who never quite made it in Hollywood was probably one of the things that, in the simplest sense, screwed him up. He sighed. "No, I am not. I think he's better off not knowing who I am."

"Just as well," Constance declared. "Although I'll have you know that he does know who you are." She paused. "Second grade is treating him fairly well."

_I think the question is, how is _he_ treating _it_? _"I'm sure it is. Where is the kid, anyway?"

"Asleep."

"I see." He ran his fingers along the petals of one daisy. His eyes darted across the room to the framed photograph of his sister and him, which had been taken in the summer of 1994. His last summer. He hesitated, but slowly, he picked it up. "I'm, uh, actually looking for Adelaide."

He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken to her. It was probably the Harmons' first Halloween at the house. Violet was still alive; so were her parents. He and Addy had discussed her costume choices. She had confessed to wanting to be a pretty girl.

The truth was, he missed his sister. And he wanted to spend some time with her. He owed her that much. They used to be so close, so tight-knit. It's just that things had happened along the way, the way they always do.

His mother took in a breath. "Adelaide? Why, how should I know where she is? I don't even know if she'd be here at all."

"What are you talking about?" Tate gripped the frame harder. "She _lives_ here, doesn't she?"

Constance looked at him for a long time. He still stood there, looking right back at her. Here was a standstill, and it was anybody's move.

She sat down and began folding and unfolding her hands together. Her voice sounded strange as she asked quietly, "You have no idea, do you?" She sniffled and wiped at her tears, which sprang to her eyes instantly. "Nobody told you yet."

"No idea?" Tate repeated. "Nobody told me about what?" It was getting harder to breathe. He gingerly took a step closer to his mother. "Mom." His voice was shaking, and he hated himself for it, but he put a hand on her shoulder anyway, still gripping the frame and the flowers with the other. "What is it?"

"Your sister is dead," Constance said slowly.

Even then, he felt he could—_should_—have guessed.

But Tate only blinked and took his hand away. "She's in that room with the mirrors, isn't she?" He ran out of the kitchen and into the next room. "Addy! It's me, Tate! Where are you? _Addy! _Let her out of there, Mom! _Addy!_"

"YOUR SISTER IS DEAD!"

Constance stood up and watched as Tate dropped the photo frame to the hardwood floor and it landed with a soft _thud_. The daisies went down with it, and its glass parts shattered into dozens of small pieces. For a while, that was the only sound in the otherwise still house.

"What?" Tate asked softly. There was a lump in his throat, and he felt like throwing up.

"I am so sorry." Constance walked to his side and picked up the frame, shaking it slightly to get rid of broken glass. She gazed at the picture. First she looked at Adelaide, and then at Tate. The boy had such a nice smile. She wasn't sure she'd ever see him smiling that way, genuinely, ever again. She was crying harder now, tears falling freely, but she was silent. "I didn't want you to know, because I wasn't sure how you'd react, and I told Violet—"

"How long has it been." It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

"Tate…" She tried to reach out and touch him, but he backed away.

"How," he enunciated, his voice steady but unmistakably filled with contempt, "_long_?"

Constance couldn't look at him when she said, "Eight years."

"Eight years!"

"It was Halloween, honey, and she wanted—"

He picked up his daisies. "Don't call me that."

"Please…"

"You killed her, Mom!" he accused, knowing full well that it wasn't necessarily the case. It might as well have been true, though, the way Constance had treated her most of the time. "You killed her, and she was the only thing I loved the whole time I was fucking living and breathing!"

"_I didn't kill her_!" she yelled back. "Some _man_ drove by and hit her and didn't even stop to see what he'd just run over! Is that what you wanted to hear? Your sister was the victim of some hit-and-run, and I couldn't do anything about it! I tried to bring her to that house, so she could be with her friends…"

"Oh, and that just absolves you of every cruel thing you did to her, doesn't it?"

Constance put the frame back in its place and sat back down. "No, I know it doesn't. And I know," she said, her voice rising with every word, "I'd have to live with it for the rest of my God damn life. Every single little thing I did wrong. And that's why," she looked at him now with pleading eyes, "I'm trying my _best_ to raise _your_ son the way I should have raised all four of you."

Tate nearly gave her a sarcastic round of applause. But all he did was nod and pull up the hood of his jacket. "Well I sure fucking hope it works out for you," he said. "Happy Halloween." He turned to leave and slammed the door behind him. He could still hear his mother sobbing inside.

_Your sister is dead_. What was the last thing he had ever said to her? He wasn't sure if she already knew how he died, and what he did that resulted in that. It was probably for the better that the cocksucker hadn't been able to trap her spirit in the Murder House. They had talked about it once, and she said she never wanted to be a ghost, ever.

He looked down at the daisies in his hand. They had lost their glow from earlier in the morning, but they still looked pretty nice. Addy would have loved them. She would have asked him to put one in her hair and he would have obliged. A whole lifetime ago, he would have done anything for her.

He still probably would.

"What now?" He was standing in the middle of the road, and in the distance he could see sprinklers moving about and people fixing Halloween decorations.

He didn't know. He didn't know anything.

So he ran.

xxx

Tate had always been a fast runner. He had probably been the fastest runner when he ran track at Westfield High, although he was never keen on showing off. It was a quality that remained in him after death. That day he kept running until his lungs and legs gave out and he could feel something burning through his body. In the back of his mind, he could only think that it would be regret, maybe even plain and simple frustration.

But it wasn't just that. He was angry. Angry with Addy for leaving him, although he knew that it wasn't fair of him and that it was he who left her first. Angry with Constance, but that wasn't exactly news. Angry with Violet, even, for knowing and keeping it from him. Most of all, he was angry with himself.

Then again, who wouldn't be?

His mother has always said that he doesn't react well to things. Today was no exception. He wanted to raise hell. He wanted to shoot up a high school all over again. He wanted to do something _so _unspeakable that it hasn't even been fathomed by anyone in the world. But something had changed in Tate after all those years. He really_ was_ trying to be a better person. In addition to that, whatever he would have done would've been in vain. It was impractical.

He was just tired of it all.

He found himself holding onto his knees and taking deep, huge breaths outside the cemetery. It surprised him that he even remembered where it was. In the light of day, there was nobody else around and the place looked somehow peaceful. Beautiful, even. Untouchable.

Tate figured that Addy was probably buried next to him and Beau. He found their graves easily, but surely that was never the hard part to begin with.

_Adelaide Langdon. A daughter, a sister, a friend._

He pulled the hood of his jacket off his head, unable take his eyes off her headstone. He was so busy looking at it, he didn't even notice Violet standing at Addy's grave. "It should say, 'The prettiest girl in the world,' don't you think?"

This time, he flinched. Those were the first words she had spoken to him in almost eight years. However, he didn't point this out. He only swallowed and said, "Yes, definitely."

"I visit every year, you know," she added.

He nodded, but he replied, "No, actually, I don't know. I didn't know at all." He finally tore his eyes away from Addy's headstone and looked at Violet.

Violet smiled. It was a sad, small smile that nevertheless looked warm and beautiful on her pale face. He missed her, and he had been waiting for this for a long, long time. But he could wait a little while longer, if only for his sister. A single tear had fallen from her eye. He wanted to wipe it away with his hand, but he hesitated.

He did it anyway, and she didn't step away like he half-expected her to. She only closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she just shrugged. "I'm sorry," she mouthed. She gently took his hand in hers, taking it away from her face, and squeezed once. And then, with one last look back at Addy's grave, and another last look at him, she left.

Tate looked at Violet's retreating form until she fully disappeared from his sight. He looked at his own headstone—_Tate Langdon, 1977-1994_—and sat cross-legged on his grave. "I guess I don't mind," he said to no one in particular.

He sat quietly for a long time. Finally, he placed the daisies down on Addy's grave and took a deep breath. "Hey, Adelaide." He smiled, but he wasn't sure how he really felt. It didn't really feel strange, though, talking to his sister when he knew she wouldn't respond. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

"I'm sorry for a lot of things, actually," he went on. "I know how hard it was for you to leave the house and live away from your friends, and me. And it must have been rough to know that I couldn't be with you and mom anymore, on technical terms, and you didn't even know why." It wasn't long before he was crying, but he had been expecting the tears, anyway. It was a wonder that they didn't come sooner, actually.

He told her everything. The shooting, how he was killed, even every single thing he did after his death in the Murder House. He said he was sorry, and he believed it. Addy had been rooting for him and Violet from the beginning, and he told her what happened to _that_, too. He recounted watching the Harmons every day and wishing he could be a part of it. He even let her know about hanging out with Ben from time to time, and spoke in great detail about his efforts to wait and give Violet what she wants, and Violet's own efforts to steer clear of him.

He told her how he found out about her death.

"Look, I got you daisies," Tate said, after the one-sided catch-up session. He arranged the flowers neatly on the grass next to her tombstone. "Remember how we would sneak out in the mornings to steal some of these? We would put them in mom's vase and she would just freak out when she saw them." He chuckled in spite of himself. "She would keep apologizing to Mrs. Pennington, who never really minds."

He perked up. "Oh, and remember when we used to just play ball all day with Beau in the attic? When we got tired we would just read books and I'd let you both listen to my Nirvana tapes. You probably hated the music, but you never complained."

He sat back quietly and waded through his memories by himself. Adelaide had been the best sister he could ever ask for. She had even protected him from Thaddeus—or the monster who used to be Thaddeus—when Nora wasn't around.

_Life is too short for so much sorrow._

Sure, she possessed mischief and obstinacy like one wouldn't believe, but she was kind and true and amazing in all the ways Tate knew he wasn't. At one point or another, it was the two of them against anyone and anything.

"You weren't supposed to leave, Addy." It was selfish. He couldn't help saying it. "_You weren't supposed to leave!_" He leaned against his headstone, sobbing, miserable, defeated.

"Not when I needed you, and _you_ needed _me_, the most."

xxx

He ran all the way back to the house, promising his sister he would return in a while. Moira was just about to leave when got there. "Are your victims after you again?" she asked. He could tell she really wasn't that interested.

"I came from the cemetery," Tate replied. "I just need some paper, then I'll be on my way back."

She looked bemused. "The cemetery?"

"My sister is dead. I just found out about it. It's been eight years, can you believe that?" He laughed, but it was humorless. "It's…" He struggled with his words. "Rough," he finished. There was no other way to say it. "It's been a rough day."

"Oh, dear." She had never been anything other than civil to him. He never saw Moira as motherly, but that's because he never had a reason to. This time, she actually patted him on the shoulder and looked concerned. "I am so sorry, Tate."

"Did you know?"

She paused. "Yes. But I've always assumed that you did, as well." She shook her head. "Your mother is a strong woman, but she just doesn't know how to handle things sometimes."

He ignored those last words, although he more than agreed with her. "Oh. I understand." He pointed to the house. "Got any pieces of paper in there?"

"I think Dr. Harmon has kept a few."

"Thanks."

Tate ran into the house and Moira went on her way. He could hear fake spooky sounds coming from the living room. The Harmons had set up an old TV they found in the attic, as well as a VHS player, and were now watching an old 80s slasher. Violet was curled up next to her mother, who held little Jeffery in her arms. Ben sat next to Vivien and had his arms around her.

Reluctantly, he poked his head through the door. "Ben?"

The two Harmon girls looked up. Ben, however, didn't take his eyes off the screen, but he didn't seem to mind talking. "Yes?"

"I need some paper. Just a small one. Moira said you might have some."

"What for?"

"Maybe cardboard would be better."

Ben finally stood up and led him to the study. "I think we've got some boxes in here," he said. "But you didn't really answer my question."

"It's for my sister, okay?"

Ben took a pair of scissors and cut a piece of cardboard out of one box. "Would this be enough?" He handed it to Tate.

"That'd be perfect, actually." Tate smiled down at it. "Thank you."

"Not to be rude, but you know you could've found this on your own, don't you?" Ben asked him, not unkindly. "Kid, you know this house better than I do."

Tate smirked. "I know. I just wanted to see how you guys were doing. Maybe ruin it for a while, because you need a little chaos sometimes."

"This is hardly what I'd call chaos."

They both looked in the direction of the living room when they heard Violet and Vivien screaming. Tate pretended to make a face, although he couldn't help smiling. "_That's_ chaos. Get back in there."

Ben started walking away, but he turned back around. "Violet told me what happened this morning."

"She did?"

"Sounds like you're both getting there; where you both want to be," Ben said. "I know it's been a long time coming, and it's been pretty hard for you two. But I can see that you're not lying when you say you love her. And I know she keeps denying it, and says it's a completely different case now, but she loves you, too. I just want you to know how proud I am of you for keeping your word. Though I swear to God, if you hurt her, or anyone else, for that matter, one more time…"

"I know, I know. I'll _try_. It's not exactly hard to ignore everything. I'm sure you know that, of all people." Tate squinted at him. "Wait, what do you mean, 'where we both want to be?'"

"Ask my daughter. I'm pretty sure she'll at least give you an answer. And, Tate?"

"What?"

"Say hi to Addy for us. We miss her too."

xxx

Before Tate left the house, he had gone on a search for a twig that's just big enough for the piece of cardboard. He had also brought a marker and some tape along with him. He wasn't sure exactly when he had decided on it, but he was going to make a sign for Addy.

By the time he got back to her grave, he was exhausted. He sat on the other side of it, which was fortunately just an untouched patch of grass, for a change. "Look," he began, "I'm sorry for suddenly lashing out at you earlier. I guess I just couldn't believe you died that way." He made two fists as tightly as he could with both hands, trying to contain his rage. He exhaled deeply. "I just really missed you, and I wasn't expecting any of this, and I'm pretty sure I'm never going to see you again." He swallowed. "That's okay. You're probably better off wherever you are, anyway."

Tate was putting the sign together as he spoke. He was a little bit frustrated that he couldn't make it any better looking than he could right then, but then he decided he had all the time in the world to work on that—he just had to wait every year, that's all.

"I know I've told you so many things today, and they're all kind of hard to grasp. I find it hard to grasp them, myself." He started writing on the cardboard, gripping the pen hard and making long, even strokes to form the letters. "But I still want you to know something. After I died, I didn't get to spend as much time with you as I should, and I can only blame myself for that. I avoided you; sometimes I even pushed you away. I didn't want you to see me like this and to know me as I've become in the last year of my life. I was wrong, as usual.

"Like I said, you needed me, and I needed you, too. I guess it's too late for this now, but I just needed you to know that, because I love you." He finished up the sign with a smiley. Because, why not?

He was about to leave the sign up when his eyes darted to his grave, and Beau's. The three daisies he had gotten were still on Addy's grave, but it wasn't alone. Tate's grave had a single daisy on it, looking fresh from being picked, and Beau's did, as well.

"One for you, one for me, and another, just because."

In the place of the third daisy were a couple of violets. They were sitting atop his tombstone, willing him to take them and give them to someone.

But not just anyone.

Tate's voice broke as he smiled slightly and muttered, "That's original, Adelaide, really." He stood up and took the violets in his hands, almost unbelieving.

Still smiling, tears almost blurring his vision, he picked his sign up and placed it firmly on the ground, next to his sister's grave. "Adelaide Langdon," he read. "A daughter, a sister, a friend. And," he added, looking towards the sign, "the prettiest girl in the world."

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><p><strong>AN: **I wasn't so sure about this one. Tate seems a little bit OC to me, but I guess I like this anyway. One of the things that bothered me (and there are a _lot_ of them) about the abrupt ending of the Murder House story is the fact that Tate never even seemed to find out that Addy's dead, and the way Constance prevented Violet from telling him felt like a major plot point. Dammit, Ryan Murphy.

After this, I think I'll write a sequel that focuses more on Violate. Thanks for reading! Here's hoping you review. x


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